


More to it

by sumhowe_sailing



Category: Sumhowe
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Slight Angst?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 05:55:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10269758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumhowe_sailing/pseuds/sumhowe_sailing
Summary: In which Sam ponders the nature of his attraction to Charles.





	

It was one thing to realize that he desired his friend. He’d known that for months, maybe even longer. This perpetual struggle with his traitorous body was nothing new; fighting his physical urges had become second nature. But lately he’d begun to think perhaps there was more to it than that.

He did not know when he first noticed the tender glances Charles gave him from time to time. He’d have thought nothing of it if Charles were not always so quick to hide them when he caught Sam looking back. That shiftiness gave them an illicit air he would not have supposed possible otherwise. No more could he place the first occasion when Charles’s hand had lingered a little too long in his own when parting. There were certain other delicate touches he had begun to think more and more about. For a while he had simply assumed it was just one of Charles’s mannerisms. Then he had started paying closer attention. Charles did not seem to grasp at anyone else in the quite the same way as he did when he took Sam’s arm or clapped him on the back. He did not walk quite so close to any of his other friends. And in carriages his knees did not seem to bump other people’s at all—no one’s but Sam’s.

It took him a very long time to admit to himself that all this together might mean Charles desired him, too. After acknowledging this, his very next thought had been _damn it all_. Because even as it became very plain to him that this was the case, he could not help thinking there was more to it than that. And even if they did share the same base desires, acting on them was still impossible. Or, if not impossible, extremely unwise. Bitter experience had taught him how quickly such a dalliance could change any friendship. In the past it had not often mattered, but the thought of losing Charles in an effort to be nearer to him was heartbreaking. Nothing could induce him to risk a rupture.

Nothing, except perhaps the fear of wounding Charles by turning him away should he ever address the matter directly. Wouldn’t such a wound cause a rupture just as surely as everything that would come from allowing such advances? In that case, what was the harm in at least getting a little pleasure out of the whole affair? Every time he found his mind wandering down this dangerous track, he quickly put a stop to it. He had the answer ready at hand: if previous experience was any indication, the harm would be he that one of them was certain to end up hating the other.

And that was precisely what he could not bear. It had never mattered before, but with Charles it was a great consideration. He thought much too highly of him, and valued Charles’ good opinion too much, to tolerate the thought with equanimity. But if he allowed things to go any further than these glances and slight touches, he was afraid that Charles would be more perceptive of his faults and hold them against him, gradually losing all esteem for him. Or far worse, he might somehow come to think less of Charles. He wasn’t sure why this latter point mattered so very much to him—he had lost enough friends before, he ought to be indifferent to it by now—but it did. In either case, he was certain it was a disaster in waiting: to be avoided at all costs.

It was almost annoying that there was so much more to it than in any of his previous undertakings of a like nature.  He had never scrupled to break hearts before; but Charles had a heart so innocent, so trusting and forgiving and generous and already burdened with more pain than anyone should have to bear and how could he possibly add to that? And he had recovered from the times he’d been deceived or disappointed before; but, deny it though he may, he believed heart and soul that if Charles turned against him, he would never truly heal. And besides all that, there was the perpetual risk of ruining both their lives if the secret got out. All these signs, and more, told Sam not to engage, not to allow it, just to avoid it and ignore it and hope they both moved on. But still, he could not. He felt there was more to it than that—something important that he had failed to take into consideration.

Perhaps it was the unknown extent of Charles’s feelings. Yes, he often told himself, that must be it. It would be so much easier to decide upon a course of action if he knew the exact situation. How deeply might Charles be hurt if Sam put him off? If it was a mere physical matter, Charles would be over it soon enough. If it were a simple infatuation, he would heal in no time. If it were anything more—well, Sam would have to be careful. Gentle. He would have to find a balance between firm rejection and tenderly consoling him. And yet, some nagging corner of his mind insisted, _there’s more to it than that._

He resolutely ignored that part of his mind. Instead of trying to puzzle it out, he threw himself into his work more eagerly than ever; and when he inevitably found himself alone with Charles almost every evening, he tried to keep his distance. It was not easy, what with Charles always doing his best to draw imperceptibly closer, but Sam was stubborn and cunning and somewhat desperate. He _needed_ things to stay as they were—exactly as they were. He could not acknowledge, even to himself, how much he appreciated the little gestures of love and longing Charles extended to him, but now that he’d been so often exposed to them, he did not think he could do without. And yet he could not bring himself to reciprocate, not even a little. That would be too much commitment on his own part, too much encouragement. He did not want to mislead Charles; God forbid he should think there was more to this than Sam obliviously tolerating these small advances.

And then one night, he understood. They’d been enjoying a fine Orvietto as they lounged in Sam’s rooms when someone had come rapping at the door, calling urgently for a surgeon. Sam had gone, and Charles had waited. Sam was kept busy for so long that by the time he was able to leave his patient, he was utterly exhausted and wanted nothing more than to fall into bed at once. As he trudged back upstairs, he constructed a mental list of things he would have to do before he could retire—a tedious list. Then, he had come back into the room and seen Charles kneeling by the hearth, banking the fire (item number three). Seeing him there, attending to Sam’s comfort, possibly without realizing it, Sam felt overcome by a wave of gratitude and tenderness—a wave which crested with the simple, shattering thought, _I love him_. So that was it. That was the factor he had never accounted for. That was why he couldn’t reject Charles outright—he was not just afraid of hurting Charles; he had always been too selfish to yield to such a one-dimensional motive. He loved Charles and did not want to lose him, not for anything.

Before this train of thought could gather steam, he was applying every brake. Whether he loved him or not, it still could not work. Even entertaining the notion of a romantic confession was foolhardy nonsense. He decided to attribute it to exhaustion and gratitude for the domestic attention Charles had paid to the fire. Domestic attention—he could find that more easily elsewhere. _I need a wife_. Just then, Charles turned away from the fire and saw him.

“Ah, Chev, I didn’t hear you come in.” His sweet smile as he said this threatened Sam’s resolve to remain aloof. _Dear God,_ he thought, _I need a wife._ As if that would make a difference.


End file.
